


Between the Near Miss and the Might Have Been

by exbex



Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: There isn’t a single comforting thought in this situation, only degrees of wretchedness, Riley decides.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 3





	Between the Near Miss and the Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> The universe of this series mostly ignores The Royal Heir, but this story takes place in a different universe that has Riley's secret intact (well, until the end) and doesn't ignore The Royal Heir and follows it through the first seven chapters of The Royal Heir Book 2...with a lot of angst. As in, a lot of angst. Nobody dies, but it's rough.

There isn’t a single comforting thought in this situation, only degrees of wretchedness, Riley decides.

She had read that it can take weeks to bond with one’s baby. It’s been months. Months are divided into weeks; maybe she just needs more time, but time is not a luxury she has. 

She takes a moment to add another theory to the pile that’s labeled Reasons My Mother Was the Way She Was. Maybe she too hadn’t really wanted a child. 

There isn’t a single comforting thought in this situation, but at least Annabelle is too young to truly feel the loss that will likely occur. Riley never really mastered statistics, but the odds are stacked against her: incarceration, exile, and death are the most likely outcomes, and that’s not considering the possibility that Maxwell may never speak to her again.

It really ought to be too good to be true, that Bradshaw has left documents stored in an unlocked desk. But his arrogance has its benefits, apparently. Riley quickly rifles through them. First there’s only what Olivia had already found, but then something that Olivia couldn’t have been expected to recognize, but something that Riley, as a former CIA officer, thinks might be very interesting to her former employers.

Ironic, that stealing Auvernal’s secrets would be the easy part.

**

“We’re not supposed to acknowledge that you were ever affiliated with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Stop wasting time with things we both already know; you wouldn’t have responded if you didn’t think I had something to offer.” Riley keeps one eye trained on the door of her study as the transaction is discussed. She’d left Maxwell sound asleep and crept down the hall, sneaking around her own estate. Perhaps it’s appropriate, considering she’d acquired it largely through chicanery.

“What are you asking for in exchange for this information on Auvernal?” Shrewd, that they would recognize that she has ulterior motives. It probably shouldn’t be impressive, but this is the agency that thought that torture was an effective method long after it’d been disproven.

“I want the CIA to negotiate my release if King Liam decides to hold me in custody.” She’ll have the prison of her own mind regardless of what happens, but if there’s a one thing she’ll allow herself, it’s her literal freedom, even if she doesn’t deserve it. “And then the CIA goes back to pretending I don’t exist.” 

There’s a long pause, long enough that Riley can feel a bead of sweat trickle down from her hairline to the bridge of her nose, almost long enough that she could pass it off as a tear. “We accept those terms. Initiate the information transfer.”

**

Riley has seen Liam angry before, but this is a first-the simmering cocktail of dread that threatens to boil over into a volatile mix of anger and despair. A strange part of her is relieved that she can no longer fool him about who she is. Still, a part of her wants to equivocate, exploit her newness and act bewildered that the United States has suddenly become interested in Auvernal. But his eyes say that it’s too late for that; his suspicions are not only aroused, but awake and alert. “What do you know about this Riley?” 

She’s seen this look before. His face and his posture indicate that he doesn’t want to believe, but he’s prepared for the hard truth that evidence brings. “The bar that you met me in is frequented by important political persons from all over the world. Which is why it’s crawling with CIA officers posing as servers and bartenders.”

**

As far as holding cells go, her’s is far more comfortable than she could have imagined. But now the time that she had wished for is a discomfiting presence. She lays silently, staring at the ceiling, and forces herself to deal with her racing thoughts, to peel back the many layers. But it’s as if she’s Sisyphus pushing that rock up a hill. She can’t find her grief beneath slabs of fear and guilt. She longs for Maxwell, but it’s with the futility of wishing for a time machine; all of her thoughts of him memories of those perfect moments when it was just the two of them. There exists a strange emptiness without Annabelle, but it feels like the sickening mix of relief and worry that has dominated since the day the pregnancy test stared back at her. Riley idly wonders if the trauma of Annabelle’s birth has left her with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Thinking of that day derails her thoughts, down a steep and rocky incline of anger. There are the obvious culprits, of course, but Riley allows herself to admit that she’s angry with Liam, who had longed for the freedom to choose a wife but ensured that choice by placing the burden upon Annabelle.

“I want something that slaps,” she’d managed to give the order to Bertrand with a straight face and a tone that struck the perfect balance between light-hearted and earnest, the same tone she’d managed when Maxwell had asked her if she had been ready before Annabelle’s anointing. “I suppose it’s too late to back out.” Her laugh had sounded hollow to her own ears but Maxwell had just smiled indulgently, and Riley had managed to smile throughout the pomp and circumstance, and everyone had probably thought the unconventional nature of it all was simply due to the free-spirited nature of The Crown Princess’ parents, and not an extremely vague hint that the Duchess of Valtoria was drowning in a sea of her own mistakes.

“Maxwell did what he had to do.” She had come so close to confessing to Amalas, to giving voice to a thought that had been haunting her for weeks: Maxwell should have let me die. Not just for the good of Cordonia, but for himself. He would have been devastated, for a time, but he would have grieved, and moved on eventually, perhaps married someone who could be the other parent that Annabelle deserved. At the very least, he would be supported by a community of friends and family. As it was, he would likely go through the mourning process soon anyway, but with the bitterness of knowing he had married a liar and a traitor.

Riley turns on her side and stares at the door, the one that hasn’t been opened by anyone other than guards in what might be hours or even days. She hasn’t seen anyone since she had made her confession, can only imagine how any of them, aside from Liam, have taken the news.

She closes her eyes, feels the tears gathering. There’s no sense in passing the blame on to others or making empty wishes for a time machine. She has made her bed, dug her own grave, and now she will have to lie in it.


End file.
